#Family Conversion

[catholics-world]

Check out this post… "PRAYER TO JESUS AND MARY FOR FAMILY HEALING AND CONVERSION ".

http://catholicp.blogspot.com/2025/06/prayer-to-jesus-and-mary-for-family.html

[noodles-and-tea]

Non-speaking Cass joins the fray (Tim is confused)

[chloesimaginationthings]

10/10 parenting from the Aftons in FNAF

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

MDZS Modern AU where Madam Lan faked her death years ago, and the secret comes out in a random burger joint, in the middle of her estranged son's first date.

Part 2 ->

[castielsprostate]

i hate you "influencers", i hate you tiktok, i hate you "content creators", i hate you "unalive" and "s€x" and "dr/ügs", i hate you instagram, i hate you consumerism, i hate you family friendly, i hate you puritans, i hate you facebook, i hate you family vloggers, i hate you violating other people's privacy, i hate you modern day social media

[teaboot]

Okay so like. You know your own name as a kid, right?

You remember how it sounds, how your parents say it, how your friends say it- you learn how to spell it, and maybe even what it means and why it was given to you, and it's yours.

It's not a tangible, physical thing, like your hair or your fingernails, but it's yours. It belongs to you.

So, like. Imagine there comes a point in life where everyone gets their name tattooed to their forehead, or something.

Could be when they're two. Could be when they're twenty. Hell, it could be when they're eighty, or ninety-nine, or whenever. But it's everybody, and it's inevitable, and it happens.

Now imagine the time comes for you, and you get up after and look in the mirror and realize they spelled it wrong.

And you have to go outside and live your life in a world where everybody is so totally used to knowing people's names on sight that not a single person second-guesses that your parents named you Susam, or Ahley, or Benjabib.

And you know it's wrong, every time you hear it, but you can choose to explain every single time- every time you're called in a coffee queue, every time a teacher picks you in class, every time you meet a new person or bump into a stranger or are greeted on the street, by children and employers and door-to-door salesmen and your fucking waitress- or you can kind of just learn to grit your teeth and ignore it.

You still notice, of course- maybe you learn to accept it, maybe you hate it every time, but whether you do anything about it or not, you still know. You know people have the wrong word for you in your head.

You know they still mean YOU, but it's not you.

So what's your solution?

Do you shrug, decide it doesn't matter, and go about your life?

Do you smear the typo over with foundation, pencil in new letters every morning?

Do you stare into the mirror sometimes and think, "wow, I should really get that fixed"?

Maybe you save up your money and get it removed, or covered up, or changed to something else. Maybe the whole damn thing was wrong, and you've been a Jacob running around as a Hailey this whole damn time.

That's the best way to explain it. It's not an easily-provable thing, or a demonstrable thing, or a feeling I can one-for-one substitute as something else-

but that's what it's like to know you're not a girl.

[jewishvitya]

"Those people believe x. We know they're wrong because y, but here's how they got to this point."

"So you think x!"

"No, I'm explaining what they think."

"You're making excuses for it and arguments that support it!"

"I'm laying out the arguments they give. I'm not making them, I'm showing them. I broke down why it's wrong and how it became a prevalent view."

"You're an x-apologist!"

Right, sorry, my mistake. Those people don't have a distorted worldview that leads them to cruelty, they're just evil by nature, their essence is darkness and violence, there's no humanity in them, go ahead and fantasize about wiping out whatever population you marked as bad. Didn't mean to interrupt your fantasy. I can see you're quite attached to it. Go on, advocate for whatever useless violence you think should happen in retaliation. I thought violence should be a horrible but sometimes-necessary tool, but it can be a goal, that's fine too. Everyone needs a dream I guess.

[captainadwen]

Damian Wayne vs the World

Sixteen year old Damian Wayne is on the hunt for a younger sibling. Being more discerning than Bruce 'child collector' Wayne, Damian's firm criteria for Batman's latest adoption problem includes but is not limited to: black haired, blue-eyed, tolerable humor, not evil, and most importantly - younger than Damian.

Lucky for him, fourteen year old newbie vigilante Danny Fenton is the perfect fit. Now, to fulfill his end of their deal, Damian must defeat the evil government organization hunting Danny in order to gain a baby brother.

Or, @livinghalfway your post made my brain go !! but in such a different way I figured it was better to make a separate post, hope you don't mind/enjoy still

~~

Damian Wayne re-entered Tim Drake's life like a gnat revealing itself in a closed bedroom space. Tim was in t-shirt and a boxers, maneuvering ramen into his mouth with one hand and scribbling out an epiphany on a murder case with another, when Damian's demonic dulcet voice echoed down from the ceiling. "Drake," said Damian, judgemental, "You live like this?"

Tim nearly choked on his ramen, because the day Damian doesn't attempt to murder him - however doubtfully accidental this incident might be - is the day Darkseid decides to be friends with the Justice League. "Fucking knock," Tim coughed out. "And get out. No one invited you in."

"Put better traps if you don't want me here," said Damian, dropping from the ceiling where he'd crawled in on wall-clamps.

"This is my apartment," said Tim. "It's called courtesy."

Damian sniffed. He padded around to Tim's desk and frowns at his cases, then said, with no further lead up, "I need your assistance."

"No," said Tim.

"You did not even listen to my request."

"Don't need to," said Tim. "Answer's still no. Door is that way. Bye."

"Father says mutually assisting each other is beneficial," said Damian.

"Father," said Tim sarcastically, "blamed me for you exploding a glitter bomb in the batcave two weeks ago."

"That is your fault for not being able to provide evidence to the contrary in an appropriately efficient manner," said Damian. He squinted down at Tim. "And he apologized. Eventually."

"I would not have glittered the batcomputer," said Tim. "Do you know how much of a pain in the ass it is to backup those servers? No, because you don't like tech work, you just profit off it."

"Blaming me for Father's mistake," said Damian, "Most mature of you. But we must put our differences aside. I have selected a new family member and I need you to dismantle a government organization."

That drew Tim up short. He blinked down at his ramen as though it might explain Damian's words to him, but the ramen remained disappointingly uninformative. "Repeat that," said Tim, gesturing with his chopsticks. "Slower, and with more detail."

Damian pulled out his phone and sent him an email. Silence surrounded them in the brief moment it took Tim to set aside his chopsticks and open the email. The subject line was titled 'New Baby Brother', which birthed all sorts of horrifying nightmares of Damian Part 2: Demon Child Boogaloo. The teen in the inserted picture, however, was reassuringly not in possession of Damian's bone structure.

He did have black hair and blue eyes. "Who am I looking at?" asked Tim.

"Daniel Fenton," said Damian. "He is fourteen years old, enjoys puns, and has recently awakened 'ghost powers' that allow him to transform into the vigilante Phantom to fight other ghosts."

"Is he also an orphan with a tragic backstory?"

"No," said Damian, and Tim relaxed. "But that will not be an issue. We can share custody if they cannot be removed from the picture."

"Jesus H, kid."

"I am joking, of course," said Damian blandly. "Murder is wrong."

"Ha ha," said Tim. "If he has parents already he's not joining our menagerie."

"He will," said Damian, with a smug upwards tilt of his lips. "He and I have a deal."

"So you're coercing him in addition to stalking him. Anything else you want to share with the class?"

Damian considered this query with a serious frown, which was how Tim knew this was not a flight of fancy or a very early midlife crisis (although with their lifestyle and Damian already having died before...).

"He has," said Damian after a moment, "a rogue that calls himself 'The Master of all Technology' and is a technopath." This was clearly meant to be of interest to Tim, and not to be a stereotype, but it kind of was.

"Great." Tim turned his attention back to the email the demon child sent him. He scanned through it quickly. There was apparently a secret and evil government organization dedicated to the investigation and extermination of 'ghosts' and other paranormal creatures in the world. Their latest efforts were focused on the town of Amity Park, Illinois, which was 'infested with ectoplasmic pests'. Their words, not Damian's. (It was specified in the email.)

"Okay," Tim drummed his fingers against his desk. "Before I help you defeat this secret evil government organization so that," he opened the email attachment with a contract on it and squinted at the legalese, "this poor newbie teen you've harassed into signing this joins the family in exchange."

"I did not harass him," Damian huffed. "It was a gentleman's agreement."

"Does he know that?"

"I am not a politician, Drake. I thoroughly explained the terms and legalities before presenting any contract. Now ask your question."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because," said Damian, tone implying 'you are stupid and haven't noticed something obvious, idiot'. "Father has begun saying he misses the noise around the manor and looking wistfully at old pictures."

"We still live there though?" said Tim. Damian looked flatly at him. "Sometimes."

"If you lived there frequently enough," said Damian, "you would already know Father is having...empty nest syndrome." Damian sounded disgusted. "I refuse to tolerate whatever inadequate and incompetent child he will find."

"So instead you found an incompetent and inadequate child for him?"

"Don't be stupid, Drake," said Damian. "I would not have chosen someone inadequate. Daniel is merely lacking formal training. Father can rectify this. It will keep him occupied for at least the next two to four years, which gives me enough time to find another black-haired, blue-eyed, tolerable child I approve of to be his successor and my second younger sibling." Damian paused. "Or until one of you procreates and gives him a grandchild."

"You're really serious about this," Tim whispered in horrified awe.

"I am serious about everything I do," said Damian. "Now, you will help me defeat this evil government organization so that our new sibling joins us."

"Okay," said Tim, but his mind snagged on a minor, throwaway detail, so utterly in odds with Damian 'Demonic Jealous Child' Al Ghul it surely came from another person - "Did you just call this kid your successor?"

[catholics-world]

Check out this post… "PRAYER TO JESUS AND MARY FOR FAMILY HEALING AND CONVERSION ".

http://catholicp.blogspot.com/2025/06/prayer-to-jesus-and-mary-for-family.html

[lucabyte]

i feel like people are sleeping on the occam's razor situation of how buckwild it is to outright accuse a guy of being a clone of your friend even if you DO have a lot of circumstantial evidence. there's other options is what im saying. they could just be like. a guy. that's a sensible deduction. you should explore that deduction. ignore my shirt that reads I <3 RED HERRINGS.

i still think odile has the correct theory on lock but she's smart enough to know it needs like... a real smoking gun to be able to bring it up without sounding insane.

anyway. (mirabelle voice) i know its rude to speculate but has anyone else noticed the grieving? they seem to be grieving. does anyone have any thoughts on the grieving? i have some thoughts on the grieving.

[moghedien]

It's so funny that they 100% confirmed Laman's Sin and his relationship with Moiraine in the show because like

Moiraine Damodred, glowing, wifed up, smiling ear to ear and on her way to announce to every Aes Sedai she meets that her fuck ass uncle has just been violently killed

[chloesimaginationthings]

Can’t spell “Five nights at Freddy’s” without GAY

(Based off @/flashcs5 post)

[epiphainie]

tommy kinard standing between two lanes. one says "tell him you're sorry you got scared and left and this time stay" the other says "commit domestic terrorism for him to show your fealty and commitment" and like any well-adjusted gay person he picks the second one

[in-tua-deep]

I’m actually really curious about comfortunits in the world of murderbot diaries? Secunits almost make sense because they’re faster/stronger/have abilities which make them superior to humans when it comes to fighting (hello guns in arms)

But I can’t see the corporate rim not having easily available sex work, and I’d bet that humans (especially indentured or trafficked humans) are a whole lot cheaper than a comfortunit. also I would not be shocked if there are bots of all kinds to provide sexual functions as well

Which makes me wonder if it’s the customizability of comfortunits that give them a market, which is its own unique kind of horror. I would not be shocked if there’s a specific market for “your loved one died, give us their tissue and we will clone it to make a custom comfortunit to get you through your grief” or “give us a pic of your ex you’re obsessed with and we will make a version that has to obey you”

and yeah sex is probably a significant chunk of what is expected of most comfortunits. But I could also absolutely see people wanting constructs of their dead or missing kids as well and stuff like that

So there’s that horror component of like. you have been designed by someone. the face you wear might belong to someone else. you might be expected to act like someone else. you cannot acknowledge out loud that you aren’t that person. if you don’t act enough like them you will be punished. you never knew that person. you aren’t that person. you can’t be yourself when you have to be them instead.

maybe after enough time has passed people start to forget that you aren’t that person. but you can’t forget, because that person has become a prison that you aren’t allowed to escape

Which opens all sorts of doors as well! Comfortunit body doubles, for example (and how weird would it feel to know the person that your organic matter is cloned from?)

I wonder if there are laws about how visibly a construct must Be A Construct in the corporate rim. we’ve certainly met more secunits in the books than comfortunits, but is that because there are fewer because they are very expensive and there is less demand, or because it can be hard to identify a comfortunit due to the sheer variety in builds/looks and desire for a more human-passing model than secunits

Idk just

comfortunits

[uncanny-tranny]

Amatonormativity has destroyed so many people's understanding and acceptance of themselves, and it's heartbreaking.

Yes, it is normal to be in your 20s, 30s, or older and not have lost your virginity, had a first kiss, or a partner. It is normal to say that you aren't ready for those things, too! It is normal if your life doesn't follow the "college graduate -> engagement -> buying a home -> 2.5 kids and a dog" trajectory that so many people have idealized.

So many people associate maturity with losing your virginity, or having a first kiss, or a serious relationship, and I think that's a dangerous association. Maturity isn't gained through those things, and you don't have to have those experiences to be considered "mature" or "grown." It is not a bad thing to go at your pace. Nobody else can live your life but you. If you end up having those experiences, that's great! But it should be done because you want to experience them, not because you feel "broken" and "immature" without them.

[neonbonded]

Practicing the Reveal… And He Overhears It

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: surprise pregnancy, emotional overload, soft domesticity, intense future-dad energy, crying (from both of you probably) ♡ a/n: it was just a quiet moment. a mirror, a whisper, a practice run. you never thought he’d hear it. but he does. and suddenly the man who’s always had the answers… doesn’t. he stares at you like you just rewrote the stars—like you handed him a universe he never believed he could have. just something a bit shorter i thought of quickly on the plane.

Caleb

You’d been holding onto the test for days. Hidden behind the tea tins in the kitchen, tucked into the box of your old journals. Not because you were scared. But because you wanted it to be perfect.

Caleb had been stretched thin lately—Fleet rotations, drills, calls from the UNICORN command deck at ungodly hours. And still, he always smiled at you like you were the only person on the planet who mattered.

You didn’t want to overload him. So instead, you practiced.

Standing in front of the hallway mirror in one of his oversized T-shirts, bare feet on the cold tile, you ran through your lines again.

“So, remember how you said we should wait until we’re more ‘settled’?” “...We’re gonna need to clear a second drawer in the dresser.” “Do you think our kid would have your eyes or mine?”

You pause. Breathe out slowly. Then—

“Hey, Caleb?” you say softly to your reflection. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

You smile shyly at yourself.

Then you hear it.

The sound of something dropping—soft, like a jacket hitting the ground.

You whip around.

He’s there. Standing in the hallway. Still wearing his flight jacket, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Just... frozen.

“…What did you just say?” His voice is hoarse. Disbelieving.

You go stock-still. “Caleb—wait, I—”

He crosses the space between you in two long strides, cupping your face in his hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“You’re serious?” he whispers. “You’re really…? You’re actually—?”

You nod.

For one breathless second, he just stares at you—eyes brimming. Then:

“I’m gonna be a dad?” he blurts, like the concept is too big to fit in his chest. “Me? I—we—holy shit—I’m gonna be a dad—”

He laughs through a choked-off sob, pressing frantic kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips.

Then he’s pulling you into his arms so tightly your feet lift off the floor, spinning you in the middle of the hallway as if he has nowhere else to go but here—this moment, this joy, this forever.

When he finally sets you down, he presses his forehead to yours, completely breathless.

“I swear to you,” he says, voice breaking, “I’m gonna be the best dad in the whole goddamn galaxy.”

And then, softer:

“Thank you. For making me the luckiest man alive. Again.”

Xavier

It’s been a rare stretch of stillness. No alarms. No missions. No glowing swords by the front door. Just you, Xavier, and the quiet rhythm of living together.

Tonight, he’s fast asleep on the couch—curled up with a book still resting on his chest, one arm draped lazily where you’d been sitting. He looked too peaceful to wake.

So you tiptoe to the bathroom, holding the little folded note you’d written earlier that day.

You read it softly to your reflection in the mirror—voice barely above a whisper:

“Hey… I know this probably isn’t how you imagined hearing it, but—” “—you’re going to be a father.”

You pause. Swallow. Try again.

“We made a new little light. It’s… real. He or she is already glowing inside me.”

You smile nervously at your own reflection.

“And I can’t wait for them to meet you.”

You freeze when you hear it

A soft knock. Followed by the sound of your name, tentative and low.

You turn slowly—he’s in the doorway, barefoot and wide-eyed, hair still sleep-mussed. He’s holding the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“…Did I just hear you say…?” His voice is hushed. Fragile.

Your breath catches. You nod.

He doesn’t speak. Not for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you—like he’s trying to etch the moment into memory.

Then finally, he crosses the room and sinks to his knees in front of you. Gently, reverently, he presses his forehead to your stomach. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on your thighs.

“This is…” he murmurs, voice catching, “...the kind of miracle I never let myself hope for.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you, and he’s smiling—but his lashes are wet.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “But I want to. With you.”

And when he rises and kisses you—slow, soft, like you’re something sacred—you realize he’s still processing, still stunned.

But beneath that? He’s glowing.

Rafayel

You had waited until he was out back painting on the cliff edge—headphones in, shirtless, covered in streaks of indigo and gold. His art trance could last hours.

So you snuck into his studio.

The sunlight hit the floor like water. The room smelled like sea salt and oil paints. And there you stood in front of the full-length mirror, a folded-up sketchbook page clutched in your hands.

“So…” you said to your reflection, smiling nervously. “I know we said ‘not yet.’ But um… turns out ‘yet’ is now.”

You pause. Swallow.

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You whisper it. Just once. And for a second, it feels real in the best, scariest way.

Then...

“...I’m going to be a what?”

You freeze.

He’s behind you in the doorway—barefoot, still holding a paintbrush, lips parted like he isn’t sure he actually heard you right.

“Say that again,” he says, softly. “Please.”

You whip around. “Raf—wait—I didn’t mean for you to—”

He walks in slowly. The brush falls from his fingers, forgotten. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the paper in your hand like it’s made of glass.

“You’re not joking, are you?” he asks. “You wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t…”

He trails off. Breath caught.

You shake your head. “I’m not joking.”

Silence. One second. Two.

Then he cracks.

The grin splits across his face like a sunrise, wild and stunned and full of something bigger than joy. His hands grab your waist, lift you clean off the floor—and he’s laughing. Gasping.

“I—! Holy shit—I MADE SOMETHING WITH YOU THAT WASN’T A MESS!”

He kisses you like you’re both a sunrise and a masterpiece—soft, shaky, endless. Then, quieter, pressing his forehead to yours:

“I can’t believe I’m going to get to teach someone how to make terrible jokes and beautiful chaos.”

Then he slides to his knees, presses his cheek to your stomach, and whispers in Lemurian:

“I love you already, little fish.”

Zayne

The house is quiet.

Zayne’s been in the study for hours—medical articles spread across the desk, old records murmuring from the speakers like white noise. You’d meant to go in and ask what he wanted for dinner.

Instead… you found yourself in the mirror. Holding a note you’d written for him days ago. You just needed to practice saying it out loud.

“I know we said not until things slow down,” you whisper. “But… maybe life had other plans.”

You pause. Then say it slowly:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The words feel strange and huge. Like trying to name a star.

You don’t notice the soft click of the door behind you.

Zayne’s voice cuts through the stillness. Low. Careful.

“...What did you just say?”

You turn.

He’s standing in the doorway with his wire-frame glasses still on, fingers curled slightly at his sides. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—tension, awe, disbelief all braided together.

“I—” you start, heart thudding. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. I was just—practicing.”

“So it’s… real?” he asks. Voice barely a whisper.

You shake your head. “It’s real.”

His eyes drop slightly—to your stomach. Then back up to your face.

He doesn’t move for a long, long moment. You see him run the calculations, review the mental charts, search for a breath.

But none of that matters now.

He crosses the room slowly, carefully, and takes both of your hands. His grip is warm, steady—but trembling at the edges.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “I’ve held thousands of hearts in my hands. But this…”

His throat tightens. He exhales hard. Then carefully lowers to his knees.

He presses his cheek gently against your belly.

“This is the most terrifying and miraculous thing I’ve ever been trusted with.”

And then, softer:

“You’re not alone in this. Ever.”

You run your fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes, holding your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of your future.

Sylus

You thought he was out late.

Protocore deal. Something classified and criminally vague. You’d texted him goodnight hours ago and assumed he’d stay gone until morning.

So you’re in his hoodie, curled up on the couch, holding a tiny plushie you bought earlier that day on impulse—a blue stuffed crow, with little red eyes.

You glance toward the bedroom mirror and whisper softly, just testing the words

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You hug the crow closer to your chest. Try again.

“I know that probably sounds… impossible. But it’s happening. We’re happening.”

Your voice wavers. You smile to yourself, imagining his face. His reaction.

“I’m scared too,” you admit quietly. “But if anyone can protect this kid—it’s you.”

“...Wow.”

You jolt upright, spinning around.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unreadable—like he’s still buffering.

“Sylus—I didn’t—how long have you been—?”

“Long enough,” he murmurs. “Long enough to think you were rehearsing lines for a drama. But now…”

He steps into the room slowly, almost cautiously.

“You’re serious.” “You’re actually…?” “You and me and… a kid?”

You nod. Gulp. “I just—I wanted to tell you right, I didn’t want to drop it on you after work, and—”

He tosses the jacket aside and crosses the room in three fast strides, pulling you into his arms so hard your breath leaves you.

“You are never allowed to tell me something like that while wearing my hoodie and holding a crow plush again,” he mutters into your neck. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just tightens his arms around you.

“...I didn’t think I’d get this,” he whispers.

You blink.

“I knew how to lead, how to protect, how to hurt. But this? Family?” “I didn’t think I was allowed to have something this good.”

Then he pulls back—just far enough to rest a hand over your stomach.

And you swear, even in the low light, he’s shaking.

“No one touches either of you without going through me,” he says, soft and deadly. “Got it?”

“This kid is going to grow up knowing exactly what it means to be loved.”

And then—he kisses you like you’re the only real thing left in the world.